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The Master Of Deception's Richest Game

Chapter 7 7

Word Count: 484    |    Released on: 22/01/2026

beige armchairs and the smell of burnt espresso. Antoine

with wild red hair and a penchant fo

Antoinette's cheeks. It was the first time in months A

ed. It was a se

I met s

an eyebrow. "

tense. He held my hands. He told me I wa

the timer. In her mind, the memory had already been

ie, be careful. Was

vely. "Technically. But he looked

at you want. It's a classic case of transference, you're proje

insisted. "You di

caught her eye. Antoinette gasped. She

t's

king down the campus path. He was wearing a faded hoodie

y asked. "He looks

her voice softening. "That's why h

ropped a pen in front of him. Kellen picked

aid triumphantly. "

maybe he likes older wome

ain instantly. Her money wasn't buying his time. It w

her phone. Sh

afternoon. Per

e. He stopped walking. He checked the

hopping is do

e text and laughed

ard to get," sh

g app and transferred

ion. His eyes widened. He looked

sonal shopper no

energized. "I'm goi

, shaking her head.

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The Master Of Deception's Richest Game
The Master Of Deception's Richest Game
“I spent three years playing the perfect "placeholder" boyfriend for a billionaire's rebellious daughter. I was the safety net, the companion, and the professional distraction paid to keep her out of trouble until she reached her "real" future. But the moment she turned twenty-one, her father slid a fifty-thousand-dollar check across a polished mahogany desk and told me I was a defective appliance being disposed of. He demanded I sign a non-disclosure agreement and disappear forever, treating my years of service like a common trash pickup. I walked out of the estate with a face full of tragic longing, making sure the security cameras caught my wet eyes. But the second the iron gates slammed shut, I wiped my face and opened "Proxy," a high-end app for the 1% who need hired bodies for their dirty emotional work. I didn't have the luxury of a broken heart; I had a foster home to roof and dialysis bills to pay. My next gig was a "hazard pay" nightmare with Antoinette Lowe, a cold-blooded professor who used me as a vessel for her grief. One hour I was wearing a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo while she hurled porcelain vases at my head, screaming about the man who left her at the altar. The next, she had me in a French maid outfit, scrubbing her kitchen floors on my hands and knees while she mocked my dignity. I became her ghost, her servant, and her scripted lover, whispering "you are breathtaking" for a five-hundred-dollar bonus while a silent timer vibrated on my wrist. I lived my life in fragments: a silent audience for a violent cellist by night, and a commanding voice on a headset for a girl who couldn't sleep. I was everyone's everything, yet I was becoming a man with no face of my own. I realized then that these people didn't want a human; they wanted a mirror that didn't bleed. Antoinette started believing the lies I sold her, convinced she was my muse instead of my paycheck. She didn't see the calculation in my eyes or the way I analyzed her every weakness just to stay in character. "I am whatever you need me to be, Ms. Lowe," I told her, my voice a perfect mask of devotion. The obsession is growing, the roles are bleeding together, and the danger is peaking. But as long as the deposit clears, I'll keep playing the game until there's nothing left of me to sell.”